by Max Hudson
Smiling, he scrolled over Mark's name. A bubble popped up with text indicating that Mark was a regular contributor. With a curious brow raised, Tristan smiled and picked up his phone.
Before he could make any calls, the screen lit up with an incoming call from Derrick.
Tristan answered immediately. “Hey, love. How's it going?”
“I have some spectacular news for you.”
“Yeah? Dish it out.”
“Well, Sal and I are going to start our own bakery.”
“Oh, snap! Really? That was a long time coming, wasn't it?”
“I know, right? He's been doing so well at the shop here in Atlanta that he thinks he has the skills to start his own.”
“And how do you feel about yours?”
Derrick hummed thoughtfully. “I'm pretty fucking awesome, so there's that.”
“I know that for a fact. When do you think you can start getting the paperwork ready?”
“Ugh, paperwork...Well, we have to seek out a spot for rent, get the loan going, order equipment, and possibly hire some staff. I'm not sure how it's going to go, but we'll figure it out.”
“That sounds like a lot of steps to take. Are you sure you're ready for that kind of commitment right now?”
“We ain't getting any younger, Tristan.”
Tristan chuckled. “No, we sure ain't.”
“It's going to be incredible. I'm beyond sure of it. After running my mom's flower shop for the first fifteen years of my life, I'm pretty sure I have a great idea of how to run a business.”
“She did love that boutique.”
“Yeah, bless her heart. She was such a pain about arrangements.”
“It was her shop.”
Derrick snorted. “Yeah, it was.”
“How is she doing?”
“Still up and running that damn boutique. I check in every once in a while. I think she's mad I got into baking instead of blooming.”
Tristan laughed. “I'm sure she still loves you.”
“Well, enough about me and mine. Tell me about Texas. Is it as dry, hot, and awful as the last time you were there?”
“You know we don't talk about that.”
“Sorry—you know I can't control my mouth.”
Tristan sighed. “Everything is fine right now. The paper I'm working for is pretty incredible.”
“You always did have an eye for fascinating events. What are you writing on currently? Politics? Sports? Weather?”
“Actually, I've been doing updated portraits for the employee page. It would also be the picture featured on their articles. Their current ones are kind of outdated right now.”
“That sounds excellent. Anyone cute?”
“Well, now that you mention it...”
A brief moment of silence lingered over the line before Derrick prodded, “Okay, what's his name?”
“His name is Mark and he's adorable.”
“What does he do?”
“He's a cartoonist, but he does a bunch of other art as well. I've never really seen his paintings, but I'm sure they're amazing.”
“You and painters—when will you date a rock star?”
“I've been considering it, but this one caught my interest first.”
“So, have you gone on any dates?”
“We did just the other day at a Chinese buffet.”
Derrick made a raspberry noise. “Boring—why not make a painting together?”
“I don't think we're on that level of gross just yet.”
“Aw, boo! Well, let me know when that does happen.”
“I hope it's soon. I wonder what his style is. I've been trying to picture it since we met. I mean, I'm a little preoccupied.”
“You're a hopeless romantic. You know that, right?”
Tristan scoffed playfully. “Oh, like you're not?”
“Uh huh, well, at least I direct all of mine at my husband and not at random strangers all the time.”
“Oh, please—you're the one who's always going on about the freedom of love, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Oh, honey, that was ages ago. You know I'm monogamous now.”
Tristan grinned. “Uh huh.”
“So, when's the next date?”
“Actually, I was just about to set something up with the museum. I'm sure I could pull a few strings with my boss.”
“Mmm, sounds cute. What are you thinking?”
“Maybe dinner on the roof after showing him his painting displayed in one of the exhibits.”
Derrick gasped dramatically. “Oh, my—you're a real gentleman, aren't you?”
“I do try.”
“You were always so sappy. I hope it goes well, darling.” A disembodied voice in the background called out for Derrick followed by a mixture of clanking sounds. “Oh, good God, that man is going to set this kitchen on fire.”
“Oh...how good of a baker did you say he was?”
“Apparently, good enough to cause a mess.”
“Have fun with that.”
“Toodles—We'll talk soon—Love you.”
“Love you, too, Derrick.”
Click.
Tristan set his phone down on the bed and turned to the picture that was resting on his comforter. A combination of emotions filled him. He recalled the buzz of electricity zapping between Mark and him at the restaurant. The scent of patchouli had stuck with him since the shoot and he considered whether it was Mark's scent of choice. It didn't matter. It was a tantalizing smell and it had made him want to hop across the table right then and there.
Although he wanted very much to be broken from his daze, he couldn't help glancing at the picture over and over, checking to see if it was still there. That little sting from Derrick had been enough to make him question himself, just for a second. But it didn't matter. That was old news. He didn't need to dwell on it. He maneuvered his mouse through his favorite website to find ink at a low cost so he could order it. But as he began perusing, he felt his phone buzz on the sheets.
He lifted it to find a message from Mark: “You up?”
Chapter Seven
Mark sat with his phone cradled between his hands while watching three little dots appear in his conversation with Tristan. As the dots continued to bounce, he held his breath until words popped up in place of the small blue orbs. He smiled.
“Hey,” Tristan replied. “I'm up. What about you?”
Mark typed quickly, “Of course, I'm up. I just texted you.”
“Right—that would make sense. I'm just working on the portrait project. Yours came out pretty nicely!”
“Well, that's because it was done by a talented photographer.”
Mark huffed and rolled his eyes. Did I really just say that? he asked himself incredulously.
“You're too kind,” Tristan wrote. “What are you doing?”
“I was just working on a new drawing and I was thinking that I've seen your art, but you haven't seen any of mine.”
“Is that an invitation to come over?”
Mark bit his lower lip. It was a stretch to prompt this conversation, perhaps even mildly desperate, but he didn't really care about how it looked. He just wanted to be in Tristan's presence again without any restrictions from the outside world.
Excitedly, he typed, “Yes, it is, actually.”
When the blue dots appeared once more, Mark kicked himself. Those things were the bane of his existence. It meant he needed to be patient when he didn't want to be patient. Those dots were like a tease in the midst of desire.
But Tristan's response put him at ease, “Well, shoot me your address.”
Mark rapidly typed his address and popped up from his bed, peering around at his messy studio apartment. Everything was out of order. There were paintings piled in a heap on a desk that was littered with crumpled pieces of paper. Pens decorated the floor around empty bottles of paint with palettes that were far too stained with acrylic to ever use again. His phone buzzed, but he set it down in favor of cl
eaning.
As he started sweeping bits of paper into a trash bag, he became overwhelmed. The sheer amount of scattered papers was enough to prompt a miniature panic that made him want to cancel. But he remained steadfast with his decision. He wanted Tristan to come see his art and he wanted Tristan to be impressed—cleaning would be the best way to provide a good impression.
He paused briefly. “When did I ever let it get like this?”
Beneath a collection of papers sat a ring of keys that were unfamiliar to him. He carelessly tossed them toward the desk and continued shoveling paper, determined to get rid of all of it. When the paper was finally scooped up, he went about gathering the pens and set them in an empty coffee mug. He cringed when he saw the carpet.
“Shit,” he groaned. “Might as well vacuum.”
He went to the closet on the other end of his studio apartment and retrieved the vacuum, hauling it out as dust spewed off the sides. He fumbled with the cord briefly before getting it plugged in only to replace his flustered fumbling with trying to find the button to flip it on. As soon as he located the button, the vacuum roared to life and he went over every inch of carpet visible.
The sound of the vacuum filled the space. It was the loudest he had ever been in this apartment. Surely the neighbors would get concerned with this sort of behavior. He had never once vacuumed here since he moved in and he never did much of any sort of tidying. He went around to each corner of the room and did his best to suck up everything in sight: dead leaves dragged in from outside, dust, hair, and bits of paper that had broken off to gather in the corners.
Once everything was properly removed, he cut off the vacuum and plunged the room back into silence. He hauled the vacuum back to the closet, tucked it inside without wrapping up the cord, and shoved the door closed.
He sighed. “That was jarring.”
He paused and took a deep breath before turning around to take in the clean appearance of his apartment. Though it wasn't perfect, it felt like there was more space available. He picked up the canvas sitting on the edge of his bed and moved it into the other closet adjacent to the desk, the one with the cramped hall that led into a roomy closet.
An easel sat in the corner that had been used a thousand times or more, currently boasting a disturbing painting that he quickly removed in favor of a happier one. He set the dark piece away facing the wall with the others and stared at the piece he had chosen. It was a vase with roses sticking out of it, something that was more decent to display than his darker work. But it was so drab. He considered picking something more chaotic.
The doorbell rang.
Unfortunately, it would have to do for now. He sprang from the closet and ran for the door, stopping to check his appearance in the grand mirror near the front. He smoothed a lock of hair away from his face, scratched at the beard now forming on his jawline, and plucked a speck of dust off his shirt.
Maybe I should wash my hands, too, he thought.
The doorbell rang again. Forgetting he had ever considered washing up, he reached for the handle and whipped open the door to reveal a neatly clothed Tristan holding up a flower.
“A chrysanthemum,” Mark chimed. “How sweet of you.”
“I had to stop by the store and pick up printer ink. I nearly ran out. I saw this and thought you might like it.”
Mark accepted the flower and stepped back, inviting Tristan inside with a gesture. “That's very thoughtful of you.”
After shutting the door, he turned to double check his room. The expansive ceilings made it seem bigger than it was with a fan hanging down from a long neck. The blades whirled lazily, not offering much of a breeze. He followed Tristan slowly inside, waiting for a reaction; holding his breath.
“How lovely,” Tristan commented. “This looks incredible.”
“Oh, it's nothing.” Mark went into the small kitchen area to locate a vase. “It's good for the price.”
“I like it.”
“It could use some work.”
Tristan nodded. “I'm sure a paint job would help.”
“The toilet leaks a bit, but at least the bathroom actually has a door. My last studio didn't have any privacy at all.”
“Well, at least you don't have any roommates.”
Mark laughed while snipping the bottom of the flower. He filled up a thin vase with water and placed the flower inside, setting it up on the island counter that separated the small kitchen from the rest of the space.
“True,” Mark agreed. “Thank you for coming over tonight. I wasn't sure if it was okay to ask.”
“Of course, it's okay to ask. As long as you don't assume I will always come over, we're good.”
Mark sank slightly but kept his grin. “Are the other portraits that you took good?”
“Oh, they're great. I'm very happy I used the digital camera instead of the film camera. It would have been such a hassle to develop them.”
“I can imagine.”
“And the chemicals always burn my hands.”
“Why don't you wear gloves?”
Tristan pointed at Mark's shirt. “Same reason you don't wear an apron.”
Mark guffawed. “Whoops—I should have cleaned up.”
“No, it's great. It adds color,” Tristan stated. “That's why I brought the flower.”
“Are you saying you don't like my clothing color of choice?”
“Actually, that's what I like most.” Tristan winked. “So, where are these famous works of art? I'm dying to see them.”
“Oh, right—of course! This way.”
Mark walked around the counter and led Tristan over to the closet door. He swung the door aside and motioned for Tristan to walk in first.
Tristan stared into the small space. “Is this...real life?”
“This is just a passageway to my real studio. Trust me, it's fine.”
“I don't know. I feel like this is what those crime show programs have warned me about my entire life.”
“I'll go first, if that makes it better.”
Tristan hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, please.”
Smiling, Mark stepped inside. He reached back and extended his hand to Tristan who took it without question, prompting Mark's heart to pump wildly. He could hear his blood rushing through his ears and could feel the red filling his cheeks, exhilarated by the gesture. Once they broke out from the cramped hall, they were standing in his miniature studio with a faulty bulb hanging overhead. It blinked a few times before steadying.
“I should replace that soon,” Mark considered. “But I'm lazy.”
“Wow, this is...”
“Cramped?”
“Quaint.”
“You're not impressed.”
Tristan shot Mark a playful grin. “It doesn't matter if I'm impressed. Do you like your tiny studio?”
The question took Mark by surprise, so much that he had to settle down on the stool right next to his easel. Above, the light flickered again and threatened to go out completely. As his eyes glazed over in thought, he really considered whether or not he did like his studio—all of it. “I suppose...I do.”
“Is there something you don't like about it?”
“I guess the size.”
“Would you ever consider moving somewhere bigger? Maybe with more rooms?”
“I suppose I could...” Mark faded while biting into his thumb. “I mean, I've always wanted a proper studio, you know?”
“Why don't you get one?”
“I'm just used to living kind of minimalist.”
“Oh, wow. You didn't really seem like the type.”
Mark raised a brow. “You thought I was a hoarder?”
“No, not at all! I just meant... I mean to say that you appeared to be someone who valued small objects, you know?”
“A hoarder.”
Tristan chuckled. “Sure, a hoarder. But I was thinking more along the lines of trinkets—memories.”
“Memories,” Mark repeated. “I have those up in my brain. I do
n't really need reminders.”
“Except for all these paintings.”
“Oh, yes, well...I ran out of space on the walls.”
“This is quite creative. I'd love to take some photographs in here.”
“I would like that very much.”
“I do have one complaint, now that I think of it.”
Mark perked up. “Oh?”
“It is rather small.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Tristan grinned as he leaned forward to inspect the painting sitting on the easel. “I'm lucky I'm not claustrophobic.”
“Too bad—I could have made it better.”
“How so?”
Mark leaned up from his stool. He grazed Tristan's lips with his, teasing Tristan with his touch. He trailed his hand over Tristan's jawline, dragging it down to Tristan's chin where he gripped the skin gently before finally plunging in for the kiss.
Tristan sighed contentedly. He succumbed to Mark's touch, surrendering his lips as Mark continued to take them. As Mark slipped his tongue inside Tristan's mouth, he let his hand trail down Tristan's chest, down Tristan's shirt, and to the hem where he rummaged underneath. He found Tristan's stomach and tickled the skin, dragging his nails over Tristan's delicate pelvis.
When Mark located the waistband of Tristan's pants, he paused and withdrew from the kiss. “Can I?”
Tristan nodded excitedly. His eyes were filled with passion, drunk desire, and Mark ate it up, smiling as Mark bent over to kiss Tristan's stomach. He undid Tristan's buttons quickly and dropped Tristan's pants to the ground in one fluid motion. As he sat back, he studied the outline of Tristan's cock.
Mark grinned as he traced Tristan's cock, coaxing Tristan to grumble incoherently. He trailed his finger over Tristan's briefs and tugged them down, allowing Tristan's erect cock to flop out. A gasp escaped him. He was enamored with the shape of Tristan's cock, absorbed by the way it looked in his hand. He squeezed it gently and leaned over to taste the tip, unfurling his tongue slowly to trace the head.